


Stitches

by KillerKueen



Series: Stitches [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Chubby Belle, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:11:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9094849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillerKueen/pseuds/KillerKueen
Summary: Belle makes an absolute fool of herself in front of the man she's pretty sure she's half in love with. What else is new?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is what comes of insomnia. I'm very proud of this, so please enjoy.

****Belle came for the books. She never bought anything (as if her measly librarian salary would allow for anything as extravagant as first editions) but Mr. Gold never seemed to mind. He'd nod, say a customary, “Good day, Miss French,” and then go back to his ledger or his clock or whatever it was he had in front of him that day.

If Belle stayed to catch glimpses of the pawnbroker, then who would know? People hardly gave her a second glance, so it was safe to assume Mr. Gold wouldn't either. It was so easy to sink into the background and observe.

Of course, that was before her cardigan had snagged on the handle of the ornate hand mirror. She had only just walked in, Mr. Gold had only just greeted her, and like the balloon she was (only capable of taking up space) her clothing had caught the no-doubt priceless metalwork from where it sat innocently on the shelf and knocked it to the floor, where the metal broke into pieces and the glass mirror shattered completely.

Belle could only stand there, motionless, as she felt the blood drain from her face. It happened so fast she actually became light headed. She didn't even think that happened in real life.

It was not the first time Belle wished she could have been a size 0. She'd gladly slim down to a size 4, even. There were days where she would sell her souls if it meant she could be just like the other women in town: slim, trim, and proper.

Regardless, this was her life now so she might as well embrace it. She'd have to leave town, and that was assuming Gold left anything of her still intact.

So when she saw Gold look up (as if in slow motion, hair brushing against his cheek, against his collar, long enough to run her fingers through and oh god he would never smile at her again), when he opened his mouth to begin his tirade, he didn't say anything close to what her mind had supplied in the whole 0.003 seconds it took him to notice her complete ineptitude. Clearly, she hadn't heard him correctly. She was too preoccupied with his face.

“I'm sorry?” she squeaked.

“I said, are you alright, Miss French?”

“Am I…?” What an odd way to start. Maybe he wanted to lull her into a false sense of security.

“Oh, I thought I heard glass break. Hold on, let me get the broom.”

For just a split second (okay maybe it was longer than that) she thought maybe he would beat her with it. He had his cane though, and that was easier to wield, so it was likely the broom was just meant to sweep up the mess she had created.

Damn her and the space she took up.

The sound of hard plastic hitting the wooden floor made Belle jump. She looked to where Gold stood a few feet from her in all his glory, broom in hand as promised, and the dustpan that he had let drop unceremoniously to the floor next to him.

It was odd to think of Gold owning something so _common_ as a dustpan. A part of Belle had just assumed that Gold glared at the air around him and the dust knew better than to settle anywhere, making the act of owning a thing to clean it up pointless.

She was also at least 93.8% sure that when Clarke Thomas tried tracking in dirt from his day in the woods, Gold as taken one look at Clarke’s boots and he had been frozen where he stood.

She had never heard of anyone watching speechless as Gold cleaned up a mess they themselves had created.

No one was going to believe her. Belle wasn't entirely sure she believed her, and she was standing there witnessing it. In real time, even.

She finally found her voice by the by time he had swept up the last of the mirror.

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Gold. I'll pay for it.”

“Nonsense,” he said. He looked between the broom and his cane (the former still in his hands, the later leaning against a nearby shelf). He grabbed his cane, said, “but what you could do is grab that.” He gestured to the dustpan.

“Then again,” Gold mused. “There is glass in there. Here,” he held out the broom.

Belle, unthinking, took it.

To be fair to herself, Belle wasn't sure she'd done a lot of that since the mirror had fallen off the shelf. If nothing else, she now had the answer to what she'd do in the event of the Fight or Flight instinct kicking in: she'd do neither.

Bravo, Belle. You'd be eaten first in the wild.

Luckily, Belle wasn't quite distracted enough to miss Mr. Gold bending over as he picked up the plastic dustpan. That man looked so good in a suit it was criminal. Or maybe it was just her reaction to him.

“Are you coming?” He asked, and oh,  _there_ was her blood, returning to her head and her cheeks in record time because a man could not bend over and then ask something as sexually charged as that without very inappropriate images flashing in her mind.

She shook her head, trying to clear it. She _needed_ to clear it because if the last ten minutes proved anything it is that Belle cannot think on her feet to save her life, and that may be, sadly, quite literal.

“If you're more comfortable waiting out here,” Mr. Gold started, and Belle rushed to correct him.

Going into the back room of the pawn shop was a dream come true, no matter what the reason. No way was she messing this up.

“No, sorry. I'll be right there.”

And she was. Right there. Mr. Gold held the curtain open for her, as if she were a lady, and she even got the courage to smile at him. The butterflies in her belly fluttered rapidly when he smiled back (it was small, and he was only being polite, but Belle wasn't too proud to count it as a great moment).

She looked around in awe, taking in as much as she could before he inevitably kicked her out. The shelves were even more packed than those in the front, and much less organized.

There were boxes of unmarked merchandise and drawers full of tarnished and broken jewelry, and a pile of furniture off to the side.

“Here,” he said, holding out his hand for the broom after dumping the remains of his mirror in the bin with the sound of sad clinks.

“Oh,” she stuttered. “Yes, of course.”

Mr. Gold frowned at her extended arm. Belle wondered if it was really the broom he was asking for.

“There is a hole in your sweater,” he said.

“A what?” she asked.

“A hole.”

His fingers reached out and brushed oh so lightly on the knitted fabric of her cardigan, turning it against her arm so she could see.

There was indeed a hole, at right about her elbow. It wasn't large by any means, but it was noticeable. It also hadn't been there when she put her sweater on this morning.

Belle thought that it seemed only fair that the mirror got the last word.

“I have that exact color thread, if you'd like me to mend it for you,” he offered, fingers still on her arm. “It won't take but a moment.”

“I couldn't impose more than I already have,” Belle said, her voice sounding rather high and breathless at the thought of his hands on her things.

“Really, you shouldn't leave my shop in worse condition than you entered it.”

“That's never been a concern of yours before,” she said without thinking, which seemed to be her thing today. Goddamnit Belle. Way to insult him on his business practices.

Instead of being insulted, he merely raised an eyebrow. “I said _you_ shouldn't, my dear.”

What the hell did _that_ mean?

“I'm the one that destroyed your merchandise,” she said in a last-ditch effort. And why was she fighting this again?

“If it were really valuable I'd have put in the case,” Gold said making an impatient motion with his hand. “Really, Miss French, I insist.”

Belle took a deep breath, but really it was a simple decision. She slid the sweater off,  one arm at a time. Honestly, it wasn't so hard. It wasn't like she was stripping entirely, and it wasn't even sexy.

Who was she kidding? Most of her fantasies started in the back room of Mr. Gold’s pawn shop, and if she were braver, if she could know that he wouldn't reject her outright, Belle would have pushed him to the cot in the corner and ridden him until neither one of them could walk straight.

As it was, she handed over her sweater wordlessly. Belle crossed her arms over her chest. Then wrapped them around her belly. Then tried shoving her hands in the pockets that her skirt didn't have.

Belle hated her arms. She could accept her stomach on certain days (even she had to admit that even with being the size she was, she had a pretty okay hourglass figure) and she has always thought it unfair that even with her extra weight her breasts were still on the small side of average, but her arms.

Oh, her arms.  

The skin was too rounded and bulbous and shook awkwardly when she moved them. Needless to say, she didn't do much gesturing. Her arms were why sleeves were invented, and  she used them liberally.

Having her arms exposed to the man she was half in love with? It made her want to try out those things called push ups.

God, push ups were the worst.

Mr. Gold pulled out a seat next to his own and gestured for her to sit. Belle sat. She was an active audience as he searched for his sewing kit, and then as he compared the color of the threads he had to her sweater.

He sat right in front of her as he worked, his fingers so nimble and so careful as he stitched together her bargain-bin sweater. Really, the value of the thing was going to skyrocket after he was finished, which really spoke to the quality of her sweater more than to the work Gold was doing.

“You're so good at that,” she blurted.

Gold’s hand paused. He looked up at her through his bangs (Belle swore her heart skipped a beat).

“It's just,” she tried, “your hands are so steady, and you're so focused and it's just...entrancing.”

Gold’s lip twitched into a crooked smile. “Thank you, Miss French. That's very kind.”

Kindness had little to do with it. Everything he did from turning the page of his ledger to brushing imaginary lint off his suit, spoke of an inner elegance that Belle envied. Even the power he exuded was elegant in its own right (after all, the lint knew better than to stick to someone like Mr. Gold).

It was something Belle would never achieve, obviously, if his mirror had anything to say about it. Belle had always been round and thick-cheeked (“my sweet butter ball,” her mother called her) and she had always been clumsy and awkward on her feet.

She just wanted to always watch him, to share in the quiet moments when he did extraordinary things and she wanted to tell him just how extraordinary he was.

Belle didn't think that was too much to ask for. A little weird, maybe, sure.

“Here,” he said, much too soon for Belle’s taste. “What do you think?”

Belle took her sweater back, thrilling at the contact when their fingers brushed. She ran the arm of her sweater through her fingers. “Wow,” she said. “This is incredible work.”

“You're too kind,” he repeated.

“No. I mean it,” Belle said, not letting him brush off how great he was. “Who taught you how to do this?”

He hesitated only a moment. “My aunts were spinners by trade. Taught me all about fabrics.”

“No wonder you're so good with your hands,” Belle said.

Gold paused in putting his materials away. He turned to her, opened his mouth—

—and Belle was out the door, curtain swishing behind her as she hightailed it to her apartment across the street.

She moved faster than any fat girl had the right to move and as soon as the deadbolt had been latched across her door she took a deep breath. And then another. And then another, just to be safe.

She was an idiot.

God it hadn't even been a real innuendo. It had probably gone right over his head. _Of course_ he was good with his hands. It wasn't an odd thing for her to comment on.

Clearly this was a sign that she shouldn't be allowed in public.

Still cursing the day she was born, Belle decided a bath and a glass of wine might help her calm down. It was only after she turned on the tap and added copious amounts of her lavender vanilla bath soap that she realized she had left her sweater in the back of Gold's shop.

Well fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle gets her sweater back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are such nice people, and thank you for reading the first chapter. I don't think I could have written this follow up if you hadn't commented or left kudos. Thank you so much <3

 

Today was going to be a good day.

It had to be, with the dress she was wearing.

It was one of her favorites and only brought out when she was in dire need: dark blue circle lace with a burgundy belt. She had even pulled on her spanx, so everything looked if not slim, then at least tight. As a matter of fact, the nice slope of her waist was interrupted by her wide belly, but Belle couldn't help but appreciate the large curve as she looked at it in the mirror. It made the skirt hang just above her knees and it felt so delightfully flirty. She loved the ripple in the fabric when she moved.

However, Belle wished she had been able to buy those brown leather boots. That was what would really have made her outfit work, was that pair of boots she found on sale on her last trip to Portland. Sadly, she couldn't zip them up past her calf so she was forced to settle for the bright red closed toe pumps.

It wasn't a bad trade off, but it was the principal of the thing. She hadn't owned a pair of boots since she was in grade school, and those were the snow boots her dad made her wear whenever she came to visit him in Maine (she hardly needed them in Australia).

Regardless of her footwear, Belle felt nice. She felt, dare she say it, pretty.

Plus, the dress had sleeves that didn’t stretch too tight across her back and shoulders, and it had pockets.

She couldn't do much better than that.

Even if the only reason she was at work in the first place was because she had to be.

God, Belle’s life was a mess. She couldn't (accidentally) set fire to her toaster trying to make grilled cheese without knowing that on some level. The black smoke billowing out of her appliance had been the last straw, if she were honest—there were only so many grievances she could take, brought upon by herself or otherwise.

That's where the dress came in. So what if she were too embarrassed to ever show her face in front of the one man in the entire state that had struck her fancy? Her dress had pockets, and that was all a woman needed in the world. Well, that and grilled cheese, but she knew how _that_ turned out, and she wasn’t going to be attempting life hacks she found on internet listicles again anytime soon.

The state of her kitchen appliances aside, Belle couldn’t help but feel that her life was looking up as she peeked into the book return. There were three entire books there, which was more than there had been at one time in months.

Yes, today was going to be a good day, indeed.

After checking the books back in, she scooped them up and wandered the stacks, taking her time in finding where they went.

Really, she didn’t mind the quiet of the library. She couldn’t deny that it’d be nice if she had more patrons (the hours had been cut to part-time for a reason, after all), and especially nice if she had a budget to buy new books, but with as light a workload as she had, she was able to pick and choose books off the shelves to read at her leisure.

A librarian who had time to read. Who ever heard of such a thing?

Besides, with the lack of patrons—most notably Mr. Gold—Belle could take comfort in the fact that she could mess up on all of the input forms or drop all the books she wanted with only herself as witness. Not that she wanted to drop any books. She wasn’t a monster.

Belle had made it to the end of the row before she realized she didn’t actually know where the books she had went. Shaking her head at herself, she turned the one on top so she could read the spine. _Once Upon a Time_ by Issac Hellar. A look at the shelf on her right told her she was in the Ys now, so that meant—

The clearing of a throat from behind her caused her to jump, and as she whirled around to see who could possibly be in the library, she let go of the books in her hands. Belle couldn’t help but think that the dull thud they made when they landed on the ground was rather anticlimactic.

“Mr. Gold,” she squeaked.

She should have just stayed in bed that morning.

“Miss French,” he greeted. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

_Startle_ was one word for it. Personally, Belle would call it _appearing suddenly and flaunting your complete and utter unreachability by reminding me why I will never be interesting or coordinated enough to deserve you_. But yes. Startle.

“Quite alright,” she said, amazed she was able to utter a single word with her dry throat, let alone two. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“Aren’t you open?” Gold frowned. To be fair to him, the lights were on. Places of business were usually open when the lights were on.

“No,” she said, then quickly, “I mean yes! Of course I’m open!”

His gaze went downward, and Belle wrapped her arms around her stomach without thinking, as if she could hide herself from view.

“Is...is this a bad time?”

The books. He was looking at the books she had flung about in her surprise. She had half a mind to leave them there, but she figured she had done enough damage by dropping them in the first place.

Besides, Mr. Gold was blocking the aisle, which made it hard to flee gracefully.

She made a point to take her time retrieving the books from the floor if only to clear her head. She was already acting like a complete loon, and the fact that Gold hadn’t left yet was a miracle in itself, but everyone had their limits.

Straightening up, she said in as even a tone as she could manage, “You, uh, don’t usually come to the library. Point of fact, actually,” she said quickly, “no one really does, so I’m sorry if I seem a little, uh, unprepared.”

“I felt inspired,” he explained with an easy shrug.

Belle found herself nodding, even as she tried to pick apart his reasoning. That was good, right? That he’d want to come in after she embarrassed herself utterly in his shop?

Her confusion must have shown on her face because Gold continued: “I saw you walk in from Grannie’s before you opened,” he confessed. “You caught my eye.”

“I wanted  toast,” she said, immediately biting down on her lip in the hope she could control her damn mouth. What an inane thing to say.

Gold, ever so polite, nodded as if there were no other reason to go to Grannie’s. “Yes, well, I remembered your sweater that you left in my care, and I thought I should return it.”

Belle looked in his hand and sure enough, there was her sweater, folded with what looked like the upmost care. Ah, so that was it. The wretched thing probably took up too much space in his back room, and he wasn’t willing to wait for her to decide to retrieve it. He was also probably hoping to save some of his other merchandise from destruction.

“Right, yes,” she said, clearing her throat. “I was wondering where that had gotten to.”

Gold smiled in his crooked way, flashing his gold tooth. “Yes, I would have waited for you to come retrieve it, but,” he paused, his lips pressed together and Belle could practically see his mind ticking away. “If I’m honest, I just didn’t want to.”

“Wait, you mean.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Precisely.”

“I see,” she said, holding the books to her chest like a shield. She wondered if this meant he wouldn’t let her loiter by his first editions anymore, since he seemed so intent on keeping her from returning. “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Gold.”

Something in his face seemed to deflate at her words, not that Belle was watching (she was going to have to break that habit anyway).

He cleared his throat. “Yes, and I wanted you to know there were no hard feelings for yesterday.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “Thank you.”

After a long, uncomfortable pause where she refused to make eye contact, Gold finally thrust out his hand. “I...uh...here,” he said, gesturing with her sweater. He didn't seem inclined to move any closer to Belle, so she took the half dozen or so steps to him. When she took the thing, she almost dropped it, so surprised she was at the sudden weight of it. In fact, what kept the library books from plummeting again to the floor was Mr. Gold reaching out and taking them, leaving Belle with her oddly heavy sweater.

“Did you sew weights to the lining?” She asked, perplexed.

“Not exactly,” he coughed.

Belle unwrapped the fabric and there, nestled inside, was a book. An old, familiar book, the leather soft and cool in her hands, the spine floral and striking. In perfect cursive read _Sense and Sensibility._

She read the cover, then read it again, her mind not able to process what she was seeing. “I can’t take this.”

His face fell further. “I want you to have it.”

“I don't understand.”

“Do you not like it? You can choose another one, if you'd like.”

Another one. Not a different one. Another. A _second_ first edition, from his collection.

“So, you mean it's okay if I keep visiting your shop?” she asked, looking up.

“Of course. I'd never keep you out,” he said, surprised that she’d come to that conclusion.

Now Belle was sure she was missing something. After all, what sort of man would throw her from his life forever while giving her what was quite possibly the best gift she had ever received? She bit her lip, clutching the book in her hands. Maybe she hadn’t fucked up everything completely yet, and maybe she wasn’t reading the situation correctly.

“Mr. Gold, why are you here?”

He attempted a smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. “I thought maybe I could borrow some of your confidence,” he murmured, no longer meeting her eye. That gave Belle ample opportunity to study his face, which meant she noticed the slight blush that started to creep up his neck and into his cheeks.

Hold on.

“You think I'm confident?”

“Of course I do.”

She shook her head. “I have my moments, I guess, but so does everybody.”

“‘Moments?’” he repeated, incredulous. “Sweetheart, the very core of you exudes such assurance that you know what you're doing, that you're able to do it well. I look at you and I see a woman who could make the very world bow at her feet, if you had an inclination to do so, but instead you give all that you can to those around you, and it’s just—” he stopped and he ducked his head forward, hiding his face behind his shaggy, greying hair. “If I may, Miss French, it’s rather captivating.”

Belle was speechless. She couldn't even feel the steady bump of her heart. For all she knew, it could have stopped.

Mr. Gold thought she was confident. Or did he think she was captivating? Belle didn’t know whether to laugh or—or give him the entire grocery list of all the reasons why she hated herself. Though a part of her wanted to demand his own list of all the reasons she was wrong to do so. She wondered whose would be longer.

But confident. Captivating. She quite liked the sound of it.

“Forgive me, Miss French,” Gold murmured when she had stayed quiet. “I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, Mr. Gold, really,” Belle said, but even to her, her voice sounded forced. “That's just—probably one of the best things someone's said to me? I mean,” she laughed, her hands tightening on the book, her sweater. “I think it might be a little misguided, but I love that. That you would think to say that to me and mean it.”

Gold looked at her then, his head tilted slightly to the side. “Why wouldn’t I mean it?”

Belle’s hands moved to her heart. She pressed her palms against her chest, against the steady fluttering she felt inside her ribcage.

She could feel his gaze, also, like a physical thing that touched and held her, warm and secure. Never had Belle had anyone’s attention so fully, and she found that she liked it. Maybe it was just him that she liked. Yes, that was it. She wanted Mr. Gold’s attention completely, and only his, for as long as he was willing to give it to her.

“I don’t know,” she finally admitted, laughing. Her smile was sudden and god knew she couldn’t hide it. “I think I might just be horribly dense,” Belle said. “I’m sorry, I just want to understand.”

“It’s rather simple,” he shrugged. “I have always wanted to talk with you.” 

“Just talk?”

Gold opened his mouth, but he shut it so fast, Belle was sure she heard his teeth snap together. He looked a little lost, actually. Finally, he said, “You see, Miss French,” but trailed off. The poor man was floundering, clearly at a loss.

Belle had a wild thought that he was just as nervous and unsure as she was. To know that they were in this together, in their odd, awkward way, did wonders for her own nerves. It was a relief to think that he wasn’t as out of reach as she always assumed.

“I, uh,” Belle said, forcing the words from her mouth. “I think you’re captivating, too.”

Gold tilted his head, and Belle could only hope that was relief that filled his eyes. “Really?”

“Of course,” she laughed. “You must know I stopped coming to your shop for the books a long time ago.”

“You never...you never said anything to me.”

“I was too busy watching,” she admitted. “Besides, why would _you_ want to talk to _me_?” she said.

“I think you’d be a fascinating conversationalist.”

Belle couldn’t help but laugh again at that. “You think I’d be...oh, Mr. Gold,” she said, her smile wide. “How about we test that theory?”

Screw it, she thought. Belle had never been pursued before, and she found it a pleasant surprise. Hell, maybe Gold only wanted someone to discuss books with and didn’t feel romantically inclined. It would be worth it all the same, spending time with someone who thought she was confident and captivating, and if he didn’t feel as deeply as she felt for him, she could figure that out later.

All she knew was that she wanted to try being brave. She wanted to try _him_ (in _every_ sense of the word).

Gold was nodding at her, a smile tugging at his mouth in anticipation.

“The library closes for the day at one,” she said. “I was going to throw together a sandwich or a salad in my apartment after, if you wanted to join me?”

“I would love to,” he said before she could even finish the offer. “Shall I meet you back here?”

“That would be perfect,” she agreed, her smile wide.

“Wonderful,” Gold said with his own, relieved smile to match. “That’s just wonderful.”


End file.
